Snaga
by Julie Poe
Summary: An Orc slave is made an officer. But he is very different, and these differences are displayed when he captures an Elf of Mirkwood.
1. Fearless

In the land of Mordor, the Orcs and other foul races thrived on death. Sauron was preparing to march against the pathetic cowards of Middle Earth.

To prepare for this magnificent war, the servants of the Great Eye began a mass production of swords, shields, and armor. Ringmail and scimitars were given to the snagas and Dogs, while the Logaz, Rakargs, and Tek'raks were given fine scale mail, and broadswords.

Amongst the endless toil of work, an overseer by the name of Bâzurk merely stood and watched as the snagas worked, waiting patiently for a chance to use his merciless whip. His job was to oversee the creation of a melting pit. The snagas dug fiercely with their flimsy shovels and picks for they knew that if they slacked just a little, Bâzurk would be their whip lashing out to draw their blood. 

Bâzurk loved to beat the snagas. In his opinion, snagas were useless to the Eye, and any of them who could not work fast enough. As snagas were expendable, no one attempted to stop him.

Bâzurk had been watching a particularly odd snaga, known as Azklâsh. The quiet snaga, aptly nicknamed Hoshat (Silence), had neither uttered one complaint, nor grunted as he was forced to dig with his bare hands for the three months he had worked in the pit. His silence angered Bâzurk, for nothing gave the Orc more satisfaction than a groaning-or screaming- snaga.

"Snaga, grafug doramri! (You, digging with your hands)" Bâzurk called out one day, his patience spent. Azklâsh rose from the side of the pit, mud clinging to his rags and skin. "Bâzurk nar shof pun! Snaga lug gris! (I see no progress. You lazy swine)" Suddenly, Bâzurk's whip cracked against Orc flesh. Azklâsh flinched but did not cry out.

Grunting in frustration, Bâzurk struck again, and again, and again. The whip cracked twenty times before the beating ceased. Black blood had been drawn by the second blow, but Azklâsh still had not graced Bâzurk with a scream.

Unable to be pleased with the snaga's physical pain, Bâzurk made his final attack.

"Zanbaur! (Elf)" Bâzurk spat before stomping off, in search of a more responsive victim. Azklâsh remained standing for a moment more, blood dripping down his back, hands clenching and unclenching. As his blood mixed with the mud of the melting pit, Azklâsh spoke for the first time in three months.

"Ashdautas Vrasubatlat (One day I'll kill you)" The snaga vowed.

Suddenly, an unorcish scream ripped through the air. The snagas turned their heads, expecting a Wraith, the most trusted servant of the Eye, to be flying overhead.

But some of these unfortunate snagas were greeted by a huge, whistling chain, smashing into their heads. Huge, sickening cracks of bones splintering and skulls crunching could be heard as their blood flew thick in the air, splattering the ground like rain on a stormy day. A troll had been loosed.

Azklâsh, the sole surviving snaga, dived for a pick. Unfortunately, in doing so, he slipped in the mud and plummeted to the bottom of the pit.

The troll's roars could be heard overhead and Azklâsh knew he was not safe yet. Trolls were not known for their intelligence and this one stayed true to his kind and slipped into the pit. Azklâsh dived once more, barely avoiding the trolls crushing weight.

But he did not escape the chain. 

The chain was huge and heavy, and it landed on Azklâsh's leg, heavily bruising it. He hissed in pain, and then his leg numbed, hindering his ability to move.

The troll, however, was quite mobile. Sensing the wounded Orc, he growled in ecstasy. Another creature to kill. He reached for his chain slowly.

But Azklâsh was too fast for him. Using his pick, he jammed it into the chain link and thrust both into the ground. The pick miraculously held.

Screaming in frustration, the troll raised its head to the sky, leaving its vulnerable neck defenseless. Azklâsh released the pick and hurled it toward the troll.

The pick tore into the troll's throat, and its blood sprayed, drenching Azklâsh. Azklâsh smiled, and licked the blood off his lips. It was warm and salty, and the Orc felt his insides warm.

All around the pit, snagas gathered at the edge, watching the Orc in amazement. Never had a snaga been so brave.

Azklâsh limped out of the pit, his leg still numbed, his back on fire from agitation. He glared at the gawking snagas, who avoided his piercing gaze.

A Logaz, noticing the sudden silence at the pit, approached the pit. Seeing the dead troll, he turned and called out to the snagas.

"Snaga vras olog? (Did a slave kill this troll?)" The Logaz hissed. One snaga stepped forward.

"Hoshat vras olog (Hoshat did)," the snaga replied.

"Hoshat prak parpara (Hoshat, step forward)," Logaz ordered. Azklâsh obeyed. Logaz snorted, taking in the Orc's unusual stance. He stood, his back straight, not crouching and groveling like the filthy snagas around him. Logaz watched as Azklâsh limped forward.

"Snaga daumab (You are hurt)," Logaz observed. Then, glancing at the snaga's back, he added, "Snaga fashaukalog (and flogged)." Azklâsh merely stood there, both the troll's and his own blood stiffening on his skin. It was a most enjoyable sensation. Logaz paused for a moment more, then grabbed Azklâsh roughly by the shoulder and led him to Barad-dur.


	2. Heartless

Chapter II: Heartless

Three years later... 

Azklâsh lay on his cot quietly, enjoying a moment of silence. The other officers were busy outside his tent, enjoying the grog recently issued them.

Even though three years had passed since his act of courage in the melting pit, Azklâsh had not changed. Though he was a high-ranking officer in the ranks of Mordor, which entitled him to much spoil, he never claimed a single piece of treasure taken from his enemies. He was still silent and grim, though his fellow officers took great pleasure in taunting him.

Azklâsh was the first and only snaga ever to be promoted to an officer's rank. The other officers hated him, for they believed he had the favour of the Eye. After all, why else would the snaga have risen from the ranks?

The other officers failed to recognize that it was Azklâsh's character that raised him through the ranks. His courage, his silence, and his lack of greediness were qualities that the Eye liked in its officers.

Azklâsh closed his eyes for a moment as he heard a scream at the far end of the camp. Earlier that night, his company had captured two Men who had strayed too close to Minas Morgul, the tower that Azklâsh's soldiers guarded. They had been tortured for the past three hours.

"Snaga!" Azklâsh's commanding officer, Piresh, called from outside the tent. Even though he was a lieutenant, his fellow officers still referred to him as a slave.

"You are to relieve Morz. Go!" Azklâsh nodded. Morz was the Orc torturing the two Men. It was not the duty of a captain to torture captured enemies, but Captain Piresh enjoyed giving Azklâsh a sergeant's job.

Azklâsh walked through the camp, silence greeting him. He was feared by all lesser soldiers, for all knew of his acts in battle. In the many skirmishes between the Orcs and the much hated Rangers of Gondor, Azklâsh killed with singular cruelty and talent. He had few war wounds, but had many a time exited the battlefield bathed in the crimson blood of Men.

Though none would admit it, he was the greatest Orc warrior ever to serve the Eye. He was feared by Men and Orc alike, though he had never once struck down a fellow Orc. There was only one Orc that he ever intended to kill: the overseer, Mâzurl.

Azklâsh had not seen Mâzurl ever since the day he had struck down the troll. But his hatred for the overseer had never dimmed. He planned to kill Mâzurl upon his return to Barad-dûr.

If he was to ever return to that cursed place.

"Come to take over, eh?" Morz asked, wiping some blood, not his own, from his face. Azklâsh nodded.

"Have fun, Hoshat. The smaller one's 'bout to kick off, but the other bugger could last a few more hours." Azklâsh looked past the sergeant, gazing at the prisoners.

One, a large one with long dark hair, met his gaze with ferocity. But the other, smaller and younger, simply hung limp the stake he was bound to, his face hidden by his ragged, blonde hair.

Azklâsh approached the blonde youth slowly, despite the older one's protests.

"Leave him alone, you brute!" He cried, though he knew the Orc couldn't understand. "He's just a boy!"

The boy began to whimper as Azklâsh placed his hand on the prisoner's shoulder. The boy looked up, startling the Orc.

"Pweath, ont hurt me," the human whispered.

The boy's eyes were gone, as was his tongue. Blood stained his face, his naked body, and the ground around him. One ear lay on the ground amidst the scarlet pool. Large flaps of skin, peeled from his legs, hung limp at his ankles, as if Morz had forgotten to sever them from the body. He had also been emasculated, but the sergeant had taken that as a trophy. The boy was obviously in great agony, and was obviously dying.

Azklâsh drew from his belt a knife. He could not bear to see the wretch in such pain.

With one quick slash, he slit the boy's throat. Blood sprayed forth as the other prisoner screamed what Azklâsh supposed was the boy's name.

Azklâsh closed his eyes as the blood splashed against his skin. He knew he should resist the urge, for the sake of the other human, but he could not. He kissed the boy's neck, drinking in the boy's sweet essence. The crimson liquid filled his mouth, and slipped down his throat, instantly warming his insides. He dug deeper into the boy's flesh, his thirst for blood overwhelming. He drank and drank, helplessly enchanted by the metallic taste of the blood.

He pulled back, and began to lick the boy's bloodstained chest, slowly cleaning the boy.

All the while, the other Gondorian screamed, tears pouring down his face. He could only watch as the cruel Orc desecrated his brother's body. He cursed the Orc with every curse he knew, and cursed himself for failing his brother. Again and again, he pulled against the bonds that kept him from ending the bloodlust, but they would not break. The skin on his wrists soon broke open, tormented by the metal chains and the wooden stake that imprisoned him. Pain ripped through the prisoner, but still he fought, the chains cutting deeper into his wrists. Blood spurted out of his wrist in an endless splatter. The artery had been severed.

The dark world began to spin and the soldier realized he was dying. He fell to the ground, splinters piercing his back and arms. How could it end like this?

"Brother," he whispered, and he slumped forward into peaceful blackness.

Suddenly, the bloodlust died inside Azklâsh when he saw the other soldier fall to his knees, dying. The look of agony on the man's face pierced Azklâsh, and suddenly, the Orc began to feel sick. A heaviness settled upon him, a heaviness he could not comprehend.

"By the Eye," a quiet voice behind Azklâsh murmured. He spun, his bloodstained teeth bared. It was Morz.

"And I thought I was good. Now I see why they made you a lieutenant, Hoshat."

Azklâsh turned away from the Orc, afraid that Morz would see the horror in his eyes. For the first time in his life, Azklâsh felt fear. He was greatly ashamed, for what he feared was not worth fearing.

He feared himself.

The rest of the night, Azklâsh could not sleep. The image of the mutilated boy haunted him. He would toss and turn, but no matter where he look, he saw the boy's ruined face.

_Is this how others feel?_ He asked himself. The heaviness that had gripped him upon the older soldier's death still remained.

Azklâsh did not know that the heaviness he could not cast away was guilt, a guilt so heavy that it threatened to reveal a dangerous truth about the Orc.


End file.
